


A Smile Needs No Translation

by bigblueboxat221b



Series: Speaking in Tongues [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bars and Pubs, Developing Relationship, Foreign Language, M/M, Molly knows the smutty bits, Sherlock's Childhood, lots of languages
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 05:20:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9163936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: John's understanding of Sherlock's personality takes a leap forward after he drags Sherlock to post work drinks with some of the NSY crew...





	

**Author's Note:**

> All the translations here are courtesy of Google Translate, so I take no credit for any errors. A lot of the phrases in the story are through an app, though, so it's probably more accurate to what would be in this story than a more colloquial translation.

Sherlock was scowling, despite the expensive Scotch in front of him.

John was ignoring him, as he had warned would happen if he ‘got all stroppy’ just because John insisted they actually accept the post-case drinks offer from Lestrade. John had pointed out that Lestrade offered every time, and Sherlock declined every time, and that was just rude. Sherlock explained that he didn’t want to encourage Lestrade to keep offering, but John said flatly he would stop buying milk and moreover, he’d empty and clean the fridge if Sherlock went home before him, so there was no choice, really.

+++

“It was hilarious, like getting the TV caught between English and Italian,” Greg was saying to Donovan, who was actually laughing at the memory of the witnesses they had interviewed for this case. When she wasn’t actively dealing with Sherlock, she was alright, John had decided, and an exceptionally good copper. Next to Donovan was Molly, who was on the way to meet her new boyfriend, then John and Sherlock.

Greg went on, “The daughter would ask in English, and the mother would answer in mostly Italian with some English, then the daughter would answer starting in English then throw up her hands and finish in Italian.”

Molly was listening with rapt attention. “Sounds like my Aunt and Uncle,” she said, smiling at the memory.

“Was one of them Italian?” Donovan asked, but Molly shook her head. “My Aunt was Spanish, my uncle had moved there when he was younger, so he spoke Spanish fluently. She was always talking to herself in Spanish, and she’d forget and talk to one of us in Spanish and we’d have no idea, but she would keep talking in Spanish – it was a farce, most of the time. I did pick up some little bits, but mostly she was trying to teach me how to flirt, so it’s not really…” she trailed off, face flaming as the others begged her to say something.

“Si me llevas a casa voy a hacer que valga la pena," she blurted, face aflame, and the others cheered, clearly without a clue.

John glanced at Sherlock, who wasn’t even listening. He poked the detective and indicated Molly, at whom Lestrade was looking expectantly.

“Well?” Greg asked, and she shook her head, only for Donovan to surprise everyone by translating,

“If you take me home I’ll make it worth your while.”

Greg looked at her speechlessly, then at Molly for confirmation, at which she dropped her head in shame.

They all cheered again, even Sherlock rolling his eyes at the unlikely phrase out of Molly’s mouth.

“Anyone else with some classy foreign language phrases?” John asked, looking around.

Lestrade volunteered, “Courtesy of my late grandmother. Laissez vos chaussures à la porte et votre pantalon sur le lit.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and muttered, “Very classy, Lestrade.”

John looked at him, surprised that he had understood.

Lestrade explained what his grandmother’s words had meant (“Leave your shoes at the door and your pants on the bed”) as John turned to ask Sherlock, “You speak French?”

“Of course,” he replied casually.

“Just how many languages do you speak, Sherlock?” John realised that everyone was looking at them at this point, but he was still curious to know.

“Fluently?” Sherlock asked.

John said, “Let’s go with ‘enough to get around without a translator app’, shall we?”

Sherlock looked at him for a moment, until John prompted him, rolling his hand over impatiently.

Sherlock snapped, “I’m counting.”

Donovan made a rude noise, while John looked disapprovingly at the apparent lie.

“Sixteen,” Sherlock said finally, “but Mycroft knows more, and plenty of languages share common roots that can be extrapolated to allow for a broad understanding when other languages are spoken.”

“I don’t believe that,” Donovan said flatly.

Sherlock looked at her levelly. “Try me,” he said in his deep voice.

She pulled out her phone, found a website and typed for a moment.

“Alright, what does this say?” Donovan asked, pressing a button so the website would speak her text.

_“U menya yest' siniy kozu.”_

“Russian,” Sherlock declared. “I have a blue goat.”

Donovan nodded. More typing, another voice.

" _To pontíki mou échei fáei óla ta tyriá.”_

“Greek. My mouse has eaten all the cheese.”

  _Det är mycket isigt denna tid på året.”_

“Swedish. It is very icy this time of year.”

 میں نے ریت پر چلنے سے نفرت

“Urdu. I hate walking on the sand.”

  _Taiyō ga azuma ni agari, nishi ni shizumu.”_

 “Japanese. The sun rises in the east and sets in the west.”

  _Zhèxiē shì měilì de shān.”_

“Mandarin Chinese. These are beautiful mountains.”

By this time, the whole group was making suggestions, passing the phone back and forth, barely looking at Sherlock except when he was expected to give an answer.

“Right, I’m going. John, you win, you may clean out the fridge.” Sherlock said finally, and John realised they may have gone too far.

They were treating him like a freak, like a toy, and it was too much. John felt awful for not defending his friend. “Me too, see you everyone,” he said, leaving his pint and grabbing his jacket. He nodded at Greg then bolted after Sherlock, who was striding out of the pub towards the door.

“I didn’t realise it would end up like that,” John said. “I’m sorry it went so far.”

“You were not involved, John, it was they who were impressed by the simple application of time and effort into learning a new language.”

John paused, wondering if Sherlock would share with him or clam up as he sometimes did when offended. “Where did you learn all those languages?” John asked hesitantly, then hastened to add, “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

Sherlock turned to look at him, examining his face in the ever changing light of the moving cab. “When Mycroft and I were growing up,” he began, “It was evident from an early age that we would outstrip both out parents’ intellect quite early, and that social skills would not be our forte. As such our parents decided that native speaking tutor-cum-nannies would allow us to pick up new languages, expanding our minds and adding valuable skills to our repertoire. There was a new nanny every eight or nine months. They were each brilliant in their own right, teaching us all manner of subjects, but instructed to only address us in their native tongues. We had to learn quickly, or we would have no idea what was going on.” He shrugged as though it didn’t matter, which told John that it mattered very much.

John frowned.  “What happened when they left?” He asked. “Did you keep in touch?”

Sherlock snorted. “They would be gone one morning, replaced when Mummy and Father decided that we had reached satisfactory proficiency in whichever language it was they spoke. Russian, Urdu, Japanese, Mandarin, Swedish, French, Greek, German, Arabic…they tried to cover as many languages as could be done, with as diverse a language root as possible. It was well meant.” He concluded.

John was mildly horrified at the approach. It did explain Sherlock and Mycroft’s tendency to shy away from sentiment – he could imagine a small boy waking to find his beloved nanny gone, replaced by another person speaking an entirely different language, the same thing happening over and over. Anyone would eventually stop allowing themselves to grow emotionally attached after such an experience.

“Well, I swear in a lot of languages,” John declared, then he looked at Sherlock, who was looking out of his window. “But I can only say this in one: You’re a good friend to me, Sherlock Holmes, and I’ve no plans to go anywhere.”

Sherlock did not turn to look, but his mouth quirked up at one side, and John knew he had heard.

“Wena ubuye ube umngane omuhle, John Watson, inhliziyo yami uyacula ngoba nihlale kulo.”

“Did I hear my name in there?” John asked.

Sherlock turned and smiled at him, “Zulu. Minenhle, or Minni. She was my favourite of all the nannies. I said ‘You are also a good friend, John Watson, my heart sings because you dwell in it.’” He shrugged a little self-consciously. “It’s a musical language, everything is poetry.”

John nodded, but his heart was racing after the surprisingly affectionate statement from Sherlock. John snuck a look at the detective, staring straight ahead. His contented smile needed no translation. It seemed they were growing on each other, then.


End file.
